


Don's Rules

by SeeNashWrite



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Humor, On-the-hunt, behind-the-scenes canon-compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 17:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18609007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeNashWrite/pseuds/SeeNashWrite
Summary: As has been noted, it's probably better if you don't take a joint from a guy named Don.





	Don's Rules

**Author's Note:**

> Per request from a follower over at Tumblr, the backstory behind the line in 8.01 where Dean says "Hey, the rules are simple, Sam. You don't take a joint from a guy named Don, and there's no dogs in the car!"

As a general rule, Don didn’t sell to anyone that wasn’t a direct referral from one of his existing customers. After all, he wasn’t some kid in college trying to make money on the side - well, he  _was_ making money on the side, but there was more at stake, more to lose if someone ran off at the mouth. He had a wife, and a suit-and-tie gig at the bank, neither of which would take kindly to knowing about the patch of land about a mile out from town where he practiced his art.

And it  _was_ art.

Don was a stickler, from the hand-mixed fertilizer to the fine imported papers he’d throw in if you bought in bulk. If you were  _really_ on his good side, he’d roll one for you, and it would burn evenly no matter how many times it got passed. But he didn’t stick around after the deal was done, eat up all your snacks like the stereotypical douches he loathed. He didn’t have a clue where any of his customers lived. 

That was another rule: Don never came to you;  _you_ came to  _Don_.

But now he found himself feeling charitable, completely against his nature, truth be told, yet it had been nagging at him, that kid - not an  _actual_ kid, anybody under 30 was a kid to Don. He’d seen the young man in town, though sparingly, and always exiting the drug store with armfuls of bandages, or at the grocery, bringing out bags of food and the occasional case of beer. He’d climb into the waiting muscle car, and one time Don had spotted the kid getting an earful from a man he assumed was the father, finger pointing, face red.

So while the location of their first real encounter surprised him - a dive bar on the county line where Don would stop after tending his crop, on his way back home - it didn’t surprise him to find the kid perched on a stool, nursing a beer, a black eye on its way to surfacing. Don did note his knuckles were bashed to hell, hoped that meant he’d given as good as he got. Regardless, the sunk posture and thousand yard stare told the world he needed a break.

“Old man giving you trouble?” Don asked as he took a stool two down, not wanting to crowd.

The kid looked up, a slight frown on his face, and answered, “No. Why?”

Don shrugged. “Seen you two around.” He made a motion, and the bartender came over, raised her eyebrows; Don nodded, then met the kid’s eye again. “Looked to me like he’s pretty tough on you.”

If the kid was offended by Don’s bluntness, he didn’t show it, instead matching Don’s shrug. “Nothing I can’t handle.” The statement was followed by a gulp of beer that might’ve indicated different.

“Oh I can tell that,” Don replied, then extended his hand. “I’m Don.”

As they shook, the kid said, “Dean.” He noticed the dirt caked under Don’s fingernails, then took in the overalls. “So what’s your story? You a farmer?”

“Sort of,” Don answered, then gave the bartender a wink when his whiskey was placed in front of him. He didn’t offer any more explanation, and he wasn’t asked for it. That alone made him like the kid immediately.

They sat in silence as Don sipped and Dean guzzled, but when the younger man was finished, he didn’t reach for his wallet or move to stand. He simply stared at himself, rigid, unblinking, in the mirror behind the bar. He went from looking like fresh twenties to hard forties in one exhausted sigh.

“You wanna try something a little stronger?” Don asked, but before Dean could commit, he’d spoken to the bartender, who’d just come to retrieve the empty mug. “I’m about to need another, and set one up for him, too.”

“Thanks,” Dean said.

Don moved down a stool. “What’s _your_ story? I’m a good listener.”

Another shrug. “I’m just stressed out.”

Don waited. The drinks were brought. Sips were taken. Don kept waiting. Then finally Dean cleared his throat.

“I, uh… my dad, he’s a… bounty hunter. We’re only here so long as the job lasts. I help him.”

Don nodded, but it was a crock of shit. The stress, he believed. But it wasn’t a big town, he’d have heard if someone shady had been lurking. Most news they’d had in weeks was from a legit farmer, elderly man who’d been ranting about wolves trying to come and eat his heart. Don’s wife was a nurse at the ER, said they’d kept him on a psych hold, but not much to do after that. He’d promised he’d swing by to check in on the nut. But he had some time to spare, given the worthy cause in front of him.

“Anyway, thanks.”

“You already said,” Don pointed out. “You’re welcome.”

They drank without any further conversation, but when the bottoms of the glasses were reached, Dean was no less tense, and Don scooted down one more stool, receiving some side-eye when he did.

“Listen, kid—-”

“Dean.”

“Right. I don’t usually do this—-”

“Uh, hey, man - you ain’t my type.”

Don grimaced. “I’m not— I’m not  _hitting_  on you!  _Jesus!_ ”

“Well what am I supposed to think when—-”

“Look, I had a real sumbitch of a father, too. And I don’t like the thought of you going back to whatever shit motel you’re holed up at, walking into whatever else he’s figured out to blame you for, especially when you’re wound up like a tick about to pop.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t get it.”

Don leaned in closer. “If you want, we can step out back, and I’ll roll you a joint.”

“I’ve never tr—- I mean….” Dean paused briefly, then regrouped, backtracked. “It’s not my thing. Besides, I only have enough cash for my beer.”

Don considered this - a complete stranger who was also a novice who  _also_ had no money. More rules out the window. But rules were made to be broken. So Don stood, gave Dean’s shoulder a clap, then pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket that made his new friend’s eyes widen.

“Don’t worry about it,” Don said, and tossed several bills onto the counter. “Come on. You look like death. So live a little.”

.

* * *

.

It started about a quarter way into the joint.

Don watched as Dean paced around the alley when he wasn’t still enough to take a puff, telling stories that would’ve blown the hair back on every camper around a fire, some things that would send even the most stoic horror movie aficionado bolting from the theater, and when Don didn’t react in an astonished enough manner - which, in his defense, he was just trying to keep up - that was when the insistent tone and rapid-fire babbling ratcheted up a notch, with some paranoia on top.

“…..and could be anywhere, Don, I’m telling you. A-ny- _where!_ ” Dean lowered his voice to a whisper. “Even  _here_ , like, just around that corner!”

Dean had gestured wildly with the hand holding the joint, causing smoke to drift into Don’s face, which he brushed away, his eyes tracking Dean as he returned to pacing, taking another puff as he went, now hell-and-gone from hesitation.

Through a hearty cough, Dean advised, “You gotta watch your back. I mean it. Do you carry a gun? A knife? Something?  _Anything?!_ ”

Don held out his hand, and the joint was passed. “Chill out.” Then he took his own advice, took a deep drag, exhaled slowly. “I keep a shotgun at my shack, by my little rose garden. And there’s a piece in my glove box. Always got a pocket knife. And my lighter, but I’m not packing the real heat - what’d you say, salt? And silver? Iron? No-go, my man.”

“I can make you some bullets. Well, no, I can’t, not here - but I can give you some—-” Dean reached around, pulled a pistol from his waistband where it had been hidden by his jacket “—-if it’s your caliber, I mean, what’s in your car? Let’s go see if—-”

“Are you nuts?!” Don hissed, glancing around them. He ran a hand through his hair, closed his eyes for a moment, trying to not be pissed at how the kid seemed determined to ruin a much-needed high. “Will you just sit down? Let that kick in? It’s my best stuff to date, brand new blend - no way you don’t feel something. I mean, do you feel any better? At all?”

Dean sat. And he thought. And he stared at his hands. Then he stared at a dumpster. Then he stared at Don.

“Well?” Don prompted.

“I think I’m hungry,” Dean said.

Don smiled at the sight of the glazed-over eyes.  _Finally_. “If you’re done with your tall tales, then what say we finish  _this_ joint, and I point you in the direction of the nearest  _burger_ joint?”

“Is it in walking distance?”

“You  _walked_ here?”

Dean nodded.

Don cursed under his breath - what kind of father let his son, he didn’t care how old, wander around a town he wasn’t from, carrying a gun, hardly any money, and with no transportation?

As if Dean read his mind, he pulled a phone out of his pocket. “I can call my—-”

“The hell you will, put that away,” Don told him, but gently.

Dean nodded again, did as he was told.

A few tokes later, and the joint was gone.

“All right,” said Don. “Let’s go get you fed.” A pause, a bit of consideration. “And me, too.”

They’d just climbed into the truck when the glove box - that is, Don’s phone - began ringing, and he answered while pulling out of the bar parking lot, but not before rolling his eyes at how Dean had set into slowly…  _very_ slowly… replacing a few rounds in the glove box gun with some of his own, transferring them at snail speed, like he was performing a very delicate surgery.

“Y'ello,” Don said.

“I have been calling you for hours!”

Don sighed. “Sorry, hon. Got caught up, picked up a stray.”

“We’re not taking in another dog,” his wife said, “and speaking of dogs - have you not gone out to Wally’s yet? Because he was expecting you, and now he’s called me, frantic, talking about wolves again!”

“We don’t have wolves out here,” Don replied calmly, because he  _was_ calm, tips to toes. He could’ve been on fire and all he would’ve done was glance around for the closest pond, then done the backstroke, look up at the stars for awhile. He actually got lost in the thought, til he picked up on the fact that Dean had begun mumbling to himself.

“Knew we didn’t get ‘em all…  _knew_ it was a bigger pack, but does he listen? Nooooo….”

“Hon, lemme let you go, I’ll head out there now,” said Don, then exchanged goodbyes with his wife. After he tossed the phone onto the dash, he said to Dean, “What’s that about a pack? You think you saw some wolves? Were you and your dad hunting for his bail-jumper or whatever in the woods?”

“Not actual wolves. Werewolves, Donny. Were-wol-llllllves,” Dean replied, and instead of putting Don’s gun back where he found it, he set it on the seat between them. Then he looked over with a smirk and half-mast eyes. “Let’s roll.”

“Roll… where?” Don asked, taking the opportunity presented by a stop sign to turn in his seat to face Dean. “I’m dropping you off at the diner, then I got to go run out to check on an old senile coot so I won’t have to deal with my wife, and then I’m going to put my fat ass to bed.”

“I’m going with you. It could be the straggler we missed.” Dean pointed up. “Full moon tonight. They’re tougher to deal with then.”

“What do you mean ‘then’? I thought that was werewolves’ whole deal, the full moon.”

“Donny, I have a theory that they can change whenever they damn well want,” Dean said, looking a bit smug as he tapped the side of his head; but then his expression changed to one that was - if Don had to name it - forlorn. “But Dad never listens.”

“There are no such things as werewolves, you  _do_ know that, right?” Don asked, and in what he hoped was a careful tone - after all, a high, paranoid, armed, possibly crazy person was about a foot away. Though, if the kid  _didn’t_  kill him, his wife  _would_ , so the distance may've been a plus; aiming straight was not something Don would've bet his substantial savings on.

“What did he say?” Dean asked as reply.

“What did who say?”

“Whoever saw it. Did they say anything about hearts?”

“We talking cupids now?”

Dean made a face. “No. Cupids aren’t real.”

“Oh, forgive me, that was a stupid—-”

“Werewolves will open up your chest and take your heart in ten seconds flat.”

Don stared at Dean til a car pulled up behind them and honked their horn - and as he accelerated, he realized this was a no-win situation. “Fuck. Fine. You’re coming with.”

“Because you believe me?”

“No, because I guess I’m breaking all my rules tonight.”

“What’s the rule?”

“Never make decisions when I’m testing out a new blend.”

“What’re the other rules?”

“Does it matter?”

Dean leaned back and closed his eyes as response - but his gun remained clutched in his hand.

They rode the rest of the way in silence, but it was most decidedly broken upon arrival at the farm. The door was busted in, looked like the wood was practically shredded, and Don saw it from the driveway, before they’d even gotten out of the truck. He picked up his gun.

“Stay here, kid,” he advised, but Dean reached for the handle - so Don planted his free hand against his chest, shoved him back. “I mean it.”

“Ooooookay, jeez,” Dean replied, rolling his still-glossy eyes.

Don had surveyed the yard as he walked, saw nothing amiss, and now on the porch, he slowly eased open what was left of the door. “Wally?” he called out. 

Floorboards creaked from somewhere down the hall. 

“Wally? It’s Don. You okay?” he tried again, making his way cautiously toward the bedroom at the end, the only closed door, glancing into the open rooms as he went.

It was dark, not a lamp on in the house, but the moon was so bright it was cutting through the windows and their ancient, threadbare curtains, which  - once he became aware of how sticky his footsteps sounded - let him see the blood trail. Don instinctively reached to his pocket, for his phone, then mentally cursed himself when he realized he’d left it in the truck. And perhaps if he weren’t still feeling a bit mellow - after all, the geezer probably went and cut himself while making dinner or some such, right? - he’d have high-tailed it out of there, called the cops. But he was, so he didn’t.

And he didn’t have his gun up when he turned the knob, nor when he opened the bedroom door, and he nearly dropped it at the sight of a quite dead Wally laid haphazardly across the bed, and Don  _knew_ he was dead - if it weren’t for the blood and the way his chest was opened up and his ribs pulled apart and the lack of a heart, the fact that said heart was lying on the floor would’ve tipped him off.

Don made the sign of the cross, and likely backwards, because he hadn’t been to church since he was a boy, and also because he wasn’t Catholic.

“Told you.”

Don jumped, turning, gun raised this time, and there was Dean, leaning casually against the door frame. Then Dean casually reached out and pushed on the barrel of the gun, and Don lowered it. And then, still casual, Dean’s eyes sluggishly cut over to the closed louvered doors across the room.

“We interrupted. Bet he's in the closet,” Dean whispered, at least, in what he _thought_ was a whisper.

“Huh?” Don whispered back.

“You wanna give it a try?”

“ _Huh?!_ ” Don asked again.

Dean pointed at Don’s gun with his own. “Loaded you up with some silver.” 

(Later, Don would swear that the man who came out of the closet just then was laughing. Don would also swear that his eyes were glowing and that his teeth were bared and that the rumbling growl that came from him was anything but human, but the cops chalked it up to Don being high - the chief was one of his best customers - and the murderer being on PCP or whatnot. Regardless, the rest of story of what happened was plausible, and that’s because it  _was_ what actually happened.)

Don turned when the closet doors slammed open, and barely had his gun raised by the time Dean had stepped forward and fired a shot.

All parties froze. Then the werewolf looked over his shoulder. The bullet had gone straight past him and into the wall. 

Dean frowned, drew back the hammer, fired again.

Miss.

The werewolf stared. “Aren’t you one of the Winchesters?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said, defensive tone in check.

The werewolf glanced from Don, to Dean, to Don, then back again. His eyes narrowed as he studied Dean’s. He sniffed the air. “Are you… are you  _high?_ ”

“ _No!_ ” Dean exclaimed, but he took a step back, glancing around like he expected more werewolves to ooze out of the yellowed wallpaper.

“Oh, for… shit,” Don muttered.

The werewolf advanced a few steps. “And here I thought I was dead meat. Maybe if it was your daddy—-”

Dean kept backing into the hallway, and Don backed toward the bed, accidentally knocking the heart under it with his boot, cringing at the sound of the organ smacking against a bedpost.

“Oh  _YEAH?!_ ” Dean shouted, and fired off his last round, which - wrecked hand-eye coordination be damned -  _did_ manage to land in the werewolf’s upper arm.

“Nicely done, idiot,” the werewolf said with a sneer. “Not that it matters - what kind of hunter tries to shoot a wolf with regular bullets?”

Dean blanched as he realized he must’ve loaded  _all_  the silver into Don’s gun instead of just a few, then put the standard rounds - a lousy three - into his own. “Uh, hey, Don?” he said nervously.

“HEY, DON,  _WHAT?!_ ” an irritated Don shouted back.

The werewolf snickered, still backing Dean down the hallway. “Thanks for bringing me the extra snacks, that other heart’s gonna be ice cold, and I was really looking forward to a hot meal.”

When Don looked down the hallway not a second later, the werewolf had leapt, sending the both of them into the den, Dean now pinned on the floor by the sofa, legs kicking, and just as Don saw a clawed hand raised, poised to rip Dean’s face off-----

_POW!_

Dean and the werewolf both gasped. The shot had gone through the werewolf’s hand. And they didn’t have to wait long for Don to have another go.

The werewolf actually howled when the next round hit his back, and while it wasn’t a through-and-through, it must’ve come close because blood was beginning to show on the right side of his shirt. But that didn’t matter. The werewolf now had his injured hand around Dean’s neck, raising the other in preparation to strike.

“Left, Don, LEFT!  _HEAAAART!_ ” Dean managed to choke out - and then he let out a grunt as the werewolf collapsed onto him following what would be Don’s final shot.

While they waited on the cops, they poked around, and in the basement, Dean let out a low whistle and Don’s eyes got wide: the walls were covered in just about every weapon he could’ve imagined, and some he never  _would’ve_.

Dean walked to the long worktable against the back wall, ran a fingertip across a bullet mold. “Your friend Wally is -  _was_  - a hunter.” 

“Holy shit,” Don breathed out. He thumbed through a small journal as he stood at the other end of the table. Every page he turned made his head spin more and more. Sketches of fairy tale monsters. Notes covering the margins on abilities, weaknesses, appearance. He raised his eyes to Dean’s. “The  _hell_ , kid.”

“He was just too old to kick its ass. Guess it’ll happen to all of us eventually,” Dean said solemnly. “Hey, and, uh - speaking of kicking ass… thanks.”

“None needed, standard Thursday for me,” Don replied wryly. He took another look around the room. “I got no idea what they’re gonna say about all this.”

Dean reached out and took the journal from Don’s hands. “So long as we take this outta here, they’ll just think he was a crazy old man.”

The two men looked at each other in silence for several minutes before Don spoke.

“I’m never smoking again.”

“This wasn’t a hallucination. And  _I’m_  the one that’s never smoking again.”

They heard footsteps above them.

“Don?” called out a voice. “Don? Where are you?”

“We’re down here, we’re fine,” Don called back. Then to Dean, he said, “Never say never, kid.”

“Well, I’m never taking another joint from a guy named Don.”

Don grinned. “Good rule. Now, let’s go on and give our statements—-”

“What should I—-”

“Tell 'em the truth.”

Dean let out a brief huff of a chuckle. “'The truth’,” he repeated. “I guess I’m trying two new things tonight.”

.

* * *

.

They parked down the road from the motel, and as Dean was just about to climb out, Don asked him a question.

“You got anybody to talk to? Anybody to… I dunno… share this burden with?”

Dean thought for a moment, then said, “My brother’s got his own life, at college. He’s probably happy.”

“Probably?”

“We haven’t talked in awhile.”

“Figure out an excuse to call him, or go see him - don’t take the joints, fine, but take  _advice_ from this guy named Don, huh?”

The corner of Dean’s mouth turned up. “Yeah. Yeah, all right. I’ll think about it. But, uh… we head out tomorrow.”

“Where to?”

“Not sure. We got wind of something in California, and something else in New Orleans.”

“Hope it isn’t werewolves.”

“Same. So are you okay covering with the police? One of their witnesses disappearing?”

Don waved him off. “I got it. You just take care of yourself, kid.” A pause. “Dean.”

Dean nodded. “You, too, Don.”

Don waited til Dean entered the motel room that had the muscle car parked right in front of it. Then he dug in his work bag, pulled out some of his stash, more than ready to burn one - but as he was leaning back up, he noticed Dean had left Wally’s journal in the floorboard. And as he leisurely drove toward home, he pondered on what all was out there going bump in the night.

It’d be a bitch, gathering the supplies and weapons, not to mention spending what would likely be some serious research time at the library. But he smiled. He’d just have to make room in the shack for more than fertilizer, and learn to balance his old hobby with his new one.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed -Nash.


End file.
